


The Snow and the Crystal

by greenurr



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, First Kiss, Harlequin, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Never Been Kissed Nicklas Backstrom, Purple Prose, Romance, Romance Novel, This Fic Makes No Sense And You Are Welcome, This Is Just My Id
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 09:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12208374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenurr/pseuds/greenurr
Summary: “Hello,” said Prince Alexander. “Are you so disgusted by my presence at the ball you mean to break the ice and drown yourself in the pond?”Nicke stuttered, unsure what to say, until he looked up at Prince Alexander. His eyes were full of mirth, his mouth curved in a comely smile.“No, I like… I like the cold,” stuttered Nicke, unable to look from the Prince’s face.The arranged marriage harlequin romance novel that everyone was asking for. Wait, no one was asking for it? Only I wanted it? Well, I wrote it, so. Here it is.





	The Snow and the Crystal

**Author's Note:**

> This is all Rave Sashayed's fault. I was living my life, very happily invested in Sid and Geno's eternal love, and she had to go personally attack me with this post (http://sashayed.tumblr.com/post/165814568830/thornescratch-they-want-the-swede-aka-the) and I popped this fic out instead of doing my homework. I DIDN'T WANT MY FIRST FIC IN HOCKEY FANDOM TO BE A CAPITALS FIC! So if anything seems OOC, or if nothing makes sense, it's because I truly, deeply, from the bottom of my heart, don't give a shit about the Washington Capitals. Sorry. (I'm kidding, I care a little bit)
> 
> I got the title by using a random romance novel title generator.

Prince Nicklas didn’t see why he should be at the ball. He didn’t enjoy them. He was the outlier, as such, in his family. His seven brothers and sisters could be all be seen on the dance floor, whirling about in their colorful clothing, or chatting by the long table sagging with the heavy weight of the feast, or sneaking out to the vast gardens of the palace with everyone from emperors to scullery maids, even in the dead of winter. His father, sitting tall in his throne in the head of the room, had courtiers and aristocrats flipping to and fro, hoping to impress, to gain favor from the all powerful monarch. Nicke, to be frank, found the point in absolutely none of this. 

His mother, he’d been told, had never enjoyed parties either. No one begrudged her youngest and only son of being the same. But an important delegation had arrived, headed by the powerful Prince Alexander Ovechkin, the eldest of his family, looking for a spouse. Even Nicke could not beg off.

He’d complained, of course, good naturedly, as his siblings had stuffed him into his outfit for the night, a ridiculous costume in his opinion. Nicke had never taken to the bright colors and tight fits that fashion dictated. Indeed, the deep red and sober blue of his suit, offset by highlights of white, was far too colorful for him. And, as he pointed out; it hugged his calves and thighs in a most… indecent way.

“All the better!” said his favorite sister, recently married and flushed with love. “If he only looks at you from the back, the Prince won’t mind that you never open your mouth!” He scowled, and she pinched his cheeks. “Stay for an hour or two, my darling. Then you may go and run ten miles in the snow, and pick up heavy weights, and whatever else you enjoy torturing yourself with.”

Nicke had wanted to reply that exercise was good for you, and the cold was bracing, but she had already moved on, chasing down a harried servant to interrogate him about canapés, so he swallowed it down.

Nicke looked, now, at the great clock at the end of the hall. He had only been here for thirty-five minutes, but surely no one expected him to endure such torture? No one would even notice, he thought, if he snuck out—no, if he took a leisurely walk in the garden. Where he would interact with no one for the remaining 25 minutes, and then retire to his bed. Yes. No one could blame him for that.

It was cold out, but Nicke’s fine clothes, stifling in the heated crowd, were actually quite adequate to keep the freeze at bay. He knew, even in winter, that there would be couples engaged in… amorous action in the private grottos of the garden. As such, he moved with determination towards the lake in the center of the garden, too open for anyone, even a fool, to cavort in.

Nicke took a deep breath in, and out. Did it again, and watched his breath steam and fade away in the cold wind. The lake was frozen over, and Nicke set one foot upon it, then the other. If he fell to his death in a pond of ice, no one could make him go to parties anymore. He took another step.

“You’ll fall,” said a deep, accented voice from behind him.

So startled was Nicke, in his surprise, that in turning around he nearly fulfilled the stranger’s prophecy. Once he was settled, he looked up at the stranger, and swiftly looked down to the ground again. It was Prince Alexander Ovechkin, ears pink at the tip from the cold, hands shoved into pockets.

The prince, Nicke could not help but observe, lingering on the sidelines and watching the ball, was not necessarily handsome. His face was a craggy rock, strong and foreboding until it folded into a smile that reached all the way into his eyes. His size, too, was intimidating, tall and broad. Nicke could not help but notice the size of his hands wrapped around a wine glass, the pinkness of his tongue when he licked out to catch a stray droplet. But more than his looks or his size, what truly drew Nicke, and a full half of his father’s court, to Prince Alexander was his energy. His smiles were often and heartfelt, his jokes kindhearted. Prince Alexander was a magnet for friendship, for camaraderie and fun. He seemed to always, Nicke had thought, in an uncharacteristic flight of fancy, made you feel like you were in on a joke, a secret that only you and he knew.

“Hello,” said Prince Alexander. “Are you so disgusted by my presence at the ball you mean to break the ice and drown yourself in the pond?”

Nicke stuttered, unsure what to say, until he looked up at Prince Alexander. His eyes were full of mirth, his mouth curved in a comely smile.

“No, I like… I like the cold,” stuttered Nicke, unable to look from the Prince’s face.

“Me too,” said Prince Alexander. “And it is nice to be alone on such a cold night, or if one cannot be alone, to be with such esteemed company as yourself.” Prince Alexander gave a stately nod towards Nicke, but his mouth twitched.

“You… you flatter me,” said Nicke, wishing all of the sudden that his pants were not so tightly fit, so that he might put his fluttering, anxious hands into pockets. For that reason, and no other.

“Only when the subject is kind enough not to laugh when subjected to my failed attempts at prose,” said Prince Alexander, stepping onto the ice, now only a foot’s distance from Nicke. He grinned, even wider. “And who shall I address a thank you note to in the future, for not mocking my attempts at gallantry?”

“Oh,” said Nicke. In one instant, in one little instant, Nicke didn’t want to be himself, not in Prince Alexander’s eyes. He didn’t want to be Prince Nicklas Backstrom, shy and boring and unsure of himself. He wanted to be someone else. Someone worthy of the look in Prince Alexander’s eyes. “Backy,” said Nicke, employing a nickname from his youth.

“Backy,” said Prince Alexander. “A beautiful name for a beautiful man. You must, then, call me Ovi.” He reached out with his hand and pressed his warm palm to Nicke’s frozen one, bringing it up and bestowing a light kiss upon the back. His lips were chapped against the thin skin.

“Ah,” said Nicke, nonsensically.

“Yes,” said Prince—said Ovi, leaning in towards Nicke until their mouths were mere inches apart.

“Yes,” said Nicke, and daringly closed the distance himself, clumsily pressing his lips to Ovi’s.

 _I wonder if he can tell I’ve never done this before_ , Nicke thought, as Ovi gathered him more fully into his arms. Nicke, out of natural instinct, wound his arms around Ovi’s neck. Their lips pressed sweetly together, and when Nicke gasped, Ovi gently deepened the kiss, easing his way into Nicke’s mouth.

Then a crack, and Nicke could feel the ice beneath their feet cracking. Ovi pressed their foreheads together and sighed.

“Ah, well,” he said. “Surely we are both missed in the ball. Come, let us return.”

Nicke followed him, though he had no desire to return to the ball himself, and highly doubted, indeed, that he was missed at the ball by anyone. And yet, as they entered the ballroom, Nicke was immediately swept up by his sister, steering him unerringly to the front of the room, where the rest of his brothers and sisters were standing behind his father’s throne.

“Prince Ovechkin’s camp has something to _announce_ ,” whispered his sister, excitedly, as she straightened her clothes before taking her place on the dais and steering him into his. “We all know the mean to announce his choice of marriage.”

“I can’t fathom why you are up here, then,” drawled one of his brothers. “Seeing as you are married.”

“And I can’t fathom why you are up here,” answered his sister sweetly. “As you are so grotesque.”

Even Nicke had to laugh, despite his nervousness. Surely Ovi—Prince Ovechkin would not even notice Nicke, yet alone recognize him. No one paid attention to Nicke. His brothers and sisters tittered, until his father raised a hand, silencing them and the entire ballroom at once. As if on queue, Prince Ovechkin came to stand before the dais, flanked on both sides by his most trusted advisors.

"We know what we are here for. I see no point in dancing around it. We want the Swede," said steely eyed Advisor McPhee. The whole throne room gasped.

Nicklas? The Swede? The youngest, and in popular opinion, the homeliest of the king's seven children? The boy was shy, everyone said, and talented, of course, extremely talented in all physical arenas, but even with the blond hair and blue eyes bestowed upon him by the late queen, he faded into that background. Nicke knew what everyone said.

Nicke trembled where he stood behind his father's throne, but schooled his face to impassivity. Prince Alexander Ovechkin looked at him for the first time since the kiss, and his eyes were dark, and deep, and completely unreadable.

"Yes, I think the Swede," said Advisor McPhee, clapping a friendly hand on Prince Alexander's shoulder. Alexander looked like he doesn't even feel it. The Advisor's eyes were twinkling. "By the way, Prince Nicke, did Sasha perhaps mention to you, at the ball, when he was staring at you all night, that he thinks you look absolutely marvelous?"

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! Comments and kudos make my lil day!!!! Also I am planning more chapters but this fic is hesitantly 1/? so don't be mad at me if it never updates.


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